


Where the Passion Flower Grows

by Cinaed



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Disabled Character, Developing Relationship, Dubious Consent, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:10:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5112461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The people of Haleth are used to the dangers of Brethil. When Turambar stumbles upon a plant called love's fever, Brandir must prove to him that it's a poison with a pleasant cure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Passion Flower Grows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts).



> Well, sath, here's a treat for you! :) I hope you enjoy over four thousand words of sex pollen for this, uh, non-existent pairing. 
> 
> Thanks goes out to liveoak for helping me figure out an ending and to drcalvin for looking this over.

The winter seemed to last forever, but at last spring came to Brethil.

With it, Brandir saw all his effort rewarded as the Mormegil shook off the dark grief that had nearly cost him his life. When he named himself Turambar and asked leave to live amongst the people of Haleth as one of their own, Brandir granted it gladly and ignored the memory of his earlier dread. Perhaps Turambar could escape his doom here in the woods, where the deep forest half-hid them from the Enemy.

On this particular day the entire forest seemed abloom, all trace of winter gone. The sweet scents bolstered Brandir's spirits, though he knew that with the spring came the growing threat of more Orcs. He rose and dressed, his heart light. With the warmer weather, his leg would pain him less and he could move more freely within the woods. He took up a basket, his satchel, and his crutch and set out after breakfast, indulging his kinsman as Hunthor joined him.

They had gathered a few herbs when Hunthor tensed. A second later Brandir heard it as well: someone crashing loudly through the undergrowth. Brandir felt his good humour vanish. Only Orcs were so careless, destroying everything in their path, with the rare exception being someone escaping danger. Brandir had no weapon, but he shifted his weight to his good leg and held his crutch like a staff.

Hunthor fitted an arrow to his bow as the sound grew closer. Then he swore and half-lowered his bow as a tall figure strode into the clearing. “Turambar! Are you mad? If there are any enemies nearby, you'll bring them down upon us.”

Turambar stopped as Hunthor spoke. He made no answer, his head bowed. He breathed unsteadily. His hand groped at his side, as though searching for the great black sword that he had set aside only a week earlier, and then stilled.

Brandir saw no sign of Turambar's spear or bow. “Turambar,” he said. Anxiety gave way to concern. He moved closer, trying to see Turambar's down-turned face. “Is something wrong?” He gripped his crutch tighter. “Have you sighted an orc-band?”

For a moment he thought Turambar wouldn't answer, but then Turambar spoke. “No.” The word was said very low, with a strange harshness. He shook his head as if to clear it. “No, I saw no one, I only--” He took a deep breath.

“If you are hurt,” Brandir began, for Turambar held himself stiffly, braced against perhaps some hidden pain. He reached out, stopping as Turambar recoiled.

Turambar stepped back into a bright patch of sunlight.

Brandir’s heart sank. He looked for a long moment at the sweat upon Turambar’s brow and the feverish colour in his face, and longer still at the pollen caught in his dark hair and upon his tunic. Glancing at Hunthor, Brandir saw by his grimace that his cousin understood.

“Turambar,” Brandir said gently, and was no longer surprised when Turambar blinked glazed eyes. He resisted the urge to steady Turambar when he swayed, for touching him before explaining would do more harm than good. “Did you find a strange flower, one as red as blood, and….”

“Of queer shape,” Hunthor offered when Brandir paused. He helpfully made a lewd gesture with his hands. Hunthor’s dismay had shifted rapidly to amusement, and he ignored Brandir’s quelling look.

Turambar stared, frowning. Some of the glazed look left his eyes. He focused on Brandir. “Yes.” His frown deepened. He said slowly, in a tone more surprised than alarmed, “I think it’s poisoned me.”

“It's a poison with a pleasant remedy,” Hunthor assured him, grinning. Then he relented a little, for Turambar's confusion had only grown at his words. “We call it love's fever. It burns you with desire.”

“Love's fever,” Turambar said. He laughed roughly. “What strange names the Men of Brethil give their plants! This doesn't feel like love.” He ran a trembling hand over his face. Then his expression changed. Licking his lips, he looked with hope towards Brandir. “There's a remedy?”

Brandir hesitated. He thought of what he knew of Turambar from his long illness and restless, unhappy dreams, and what he had heard of the Mormegil of Nargothrond. Would Turambar accept the cure? Or would he let the plant's effect kill him? The latter happened rarely, but it was not unheard of, and Turambar's pride might outweigh all sensibility.

Slowly he said, “We of Brethil have lived with love's fever since Haleth brought us to the forest. There is but one way to survive. You must consummate your desire before the fever kills you.”

Hunthor nodded. “A pleasant remedy, as I said!” He frowned as Turambar stared between them, stricken. He softened his voice, smiling in reassurance. “Turambar, there's no shame in it.”

“No shame?” Turambar's words were sharp. He took a step back, shaking his head. “How could I not feel shame, to be controlled so by a flower?”

Hunthor shrugged. “It's as Brandir said. All in Brethil understand love's fever. No one will judge you.” He grinned briefly. “And its effect has its uses from time to time! Stumbling into the plant loosened my tongue so that I proposed. Calen had been waiting two years and more for me to get up the courage to ask.”

“Turambar,” Brandir said. When Turambar looked at him, he added, “Hunthor speaks lightly, but many here hate the plant and pretend such encounters never happened. You may bed whomever you like, so long as they are willing, and then no one will speak of it again.”

Nodding, Hunthor said, “Indeed, people do choose that. Are there any that you--”

“No,” Turambar said. He laughed, a despairing sound that brought Brandir's heart even lower, and reached for his side again, groping for the sword that wasn't there. There was rage in the gesture. Brandir wondered if he meant to go back the way he had come and destroy the love's fever.

“No,” Turambar said again. His look was wild. “I won't debase myself so. This fever is bearable--” His body betrayed him, and he trembled so violently that he couldn't speak. Still he said through gritted teeth, “It is bearable.”

“Turambar,” said Brandir, and Turambar turned and fled, stumbling as he went.

Hunthor started to follow. He stilled as Brandir grabbed his arm. “Brandir, one of us should go after him.” All amusement was gone from Hunthor's features, and he looked worriedly in the direction Turambar had gone. “He'll only last another hour or two.”

“I know.” Brandir took a deep breath, trying to think. It was difficult, when all he could see was Turambar's stricken look. “You must go to the Ephel and warn everyone that love's fever is blooming. I'll follow Turambar and try to reason with him.” He caught Hunthor's glance towards his leg and said a little dryly, “He's faint from the fever already. Even I could catch him now.”

“Very well,” said Hunthor, and then, turning to go, hesitated. “And if you speak sense to him? Should he ask you....” His voice trailed off, and his doubtful gaze lowered again to Brandir's leg.

Brandir had resigned himself to his lameness long ago, but now the old bitterness rose up in him, strong and unexpected. “You forget, cousin. It's only my leg that is lame,” he said. The unaccustomed bite to his words made Hunthor stare. “The rest of me is still a man. We shall manage around my leg if he wishes it so. Or else I'll help him back to the Ephel and see him into the arms of the person he desires. Now go!”

Turambar had left an obvious trail behind him. Brandir abandoned his basket and followed the trampled grass and broken branches until he came at last to a clearing where a small cabin stood. Judging by its dilapidation, the cabin had been been abandoned years ago, as the people of Haleth first began to dwindle and draw back to the confines of what would become Ephel Brandir. But the builders had done their work well. Even rain and winter and disuse had not brought the cabin to complete ruin.

Turambar didn't answer Brandir's knock. Perhaps he wasn't inside, but Brandir thought it likely that he would shelter here. By now Turambar would be faint and no longer surefooted. Brandir pushed the door open and went in, peering into the shadows. He looked first towards the bed, but saw that it was empty. Then he heard faint movement to his left.

When he turned, he found Turambar in the furthest corner of the room, curled in on himself like a wounded animal who'd crawled off to die. Brandir flinched at the thought and then came forward, forcing his voice to mildness. “You might have spared my leg the chase.”

Turambar's answer was a rough whisper. “My lord, you shouldn't have come.”

Brandir knelt carefully within arm's reach before Turambar, though he didn't touch him. He set his satchel and crutch down. “You asked me once to count you as one born in Brethil. Do you take that back? If I allow one of my people to die in needless suffering, I am no fit leader. I would help any man or woman of Brethil with equal gladness.” He paused, for the last part of his speech felt only half truthful. He hoped it didn't sound so. “Let me help you. Please.”

“Your words do you credit, but you cannot help,” Turambar said. The sunlight turned the pained lines of his face even harsher as he shivered and gasped for breath. “I would rather die than have us both shamed this way. Go back to the Ephel--”

Worried exasperation flared in Brandir. For the second time that day he found himself speaking sharply. “Go back and do what, I ask you! Sit and wait while you die from stubborn pride? That pleases me not.” He paused, but Turambar said nothing. Gentling his tone, he said, “Turambar. I know much of plant lore and of the history of the people of Haleth. Shall I name you every man and woman of Brethil who died of love's fever before you understand there is no shame in this?”

Turambar made no answer, but his eyes, the grey all but lost to black, were fixed upon Brandir's face.

Brandir took a breath. “Very well. There was Hrodor, first of our people to stumble upon the plant. He was kinsman to Haleth. No one knew what ailed him, and the fever killed him. Then there was Aldeth, who understood the flower's purpose. She mockingly named it love's fever, but thought to resist it, for Hrodor had been old and she was young, and so she died.”

He paused again, but Turambar still said nothing. “After that, Haleth spoke to her people and told them to set aside their pride if they found someone willing to help them. We had no deaths for an entire generation then, until Loren. He loved another man dearly, but Hargam loved another, and so, refusing all others for want of him, Loren died.”

“Enough,” Turambar said. He laughed the same despairing laugh as before. He pressed his hands to his face, and Brandir saw how they shook. “Enough. I have been scolded before for my pride. Shall I make the same mistake again?” Here he paused and added, softer, “Though at least this time it would mean only my death.”

“Your death and my sorrow,” Brandir said, and ached to touch Turambar's trembling hands and comfort him. “This cannot be your fate.” Still, hope stirred when Turambar didn't argue. The silence had a different feeling to it now. “There's still time before you are too weak to walk. We shall get you to the Ephel.”

“The Ephel?” Now Turambar straightened a little, no longer huddled miserably against the wall. Brandir tried not to be distracted by his fingers restlessly rubbing against his trousers or the way he licked his lips and frowned. “But the cabin is here.”

Brandir hesitated. His leg pained him, unused to crouching for so long, and made it difficult to think clearly. He stood. Gesturing to his crutch, he attempted a smile. “I cannot fetch someone before the fever would kill you. Surely you would prefer someone hale.”

“No,” Turambar said. He rose to a kneeling position, looking up at Brandir. His frown gave way to a faint smile, unfamiliar with its uncertainty. “You tended me once before. Will you not do so again?” Then his expression clouded. “But if you don't wish....”

Brandir laughed at the thought. “Oh no,” he said, and yielded to his desire to touch. His fingers caressed Turambar's hot cheek. “I will help you, and gladly. I only--” The rest of his words were lost as Turambar embraced him. The fever had weakened Turambar, but still he had enough strength to stand and pull Brandir against him. Brandir's crutch fell to the floor with a clatter. He had no thought except for Turambar's nearness.

Turambar's entire body trembled. “Brandir,” he said. His look was wild again.

Brandir felt Turambar's hardness against his thigh. His own arousal dizzied him. For a moment he could only stare up at Turambar's desperate features. “Help me to the bed,” he said, and nearly laughed again as Turambar lifted him off his feet.

The bed smelled of dust and age and creaked alarmingly under their weight. Brandir didn't care, not as Turambar straddled him, pinning him to the furs between his knees. Turambar's tunic had ridden up; Brandir could see his cock straining the confines of his trousers.

When he slid his hand under Turambar's trousers and leggings, Turambar groaned and thrust helplessly into his touch. His eyes closed, and his expression grew tense with discomfort. Another sound escaped him, less of pleasure than of pain. Brandir clutched at the dusty furs with his free hand so that he didn't do something foolish.

Turambar was already so close to the edge that he came with a few strokes, staining Brandir's tunic with his release. For a second Turambar's features relaxed, but just as swiftly his brows knit and he moaned in frustration. Already his cock was hardening again.

“Love's fever is not conquered so easily,” Brandir said, and wished to take the words back, fearing that Turambar would take them amiss. “My satchel-- there is a jar. Fetch it here.”

As Turambar obeyed, Brandir began to disrobe. He threw the stained tunic aside and then turned more carefully to the rest. His shoes gave him no trouble, but his leg spasmed as he stripped away his trousers. He stilled, breathing hard and rubbing where the pain was worst.

Two things landed on the bed, and Brandir paused to blink down at the jars.

Turambar loomed over the bed. Brandir caught his breath, moved by the way he looked at him even as Turambar said, “I didn't dare to guess which jar you meant.”

The rough note in his voice cleared Brandir's mind. Love's fever still burned in Turambar's veins, paining him; Brandir's desire could wait. He managed a smile as he leaned back and gestured for Turambar to remove his leggings. The pain in his leg was receding, enough that he could say lightly, “Good that you brought both then! You wouldn't have enjoyed the numbing balm.”

A sound escaped Turambar that might have been a laugh. He held Brandir's leggings in his fist and stood there licking his lips. His hot look was like a caress.

“Undress,” Brandir suggested, and reached for the correct jar as Turambar fumbled with his tunic. Preparing himself was an ordeal, Brandir's fingers trembling badly enough that he nearly threw the salve aside in frustration. Turambar stripping was a distraction too, and Brandir found himself more than once pausing to stare at Turambar's exposed broad shoulders, his chest, his strong thighs, his prick.

“Come here,” said Brandir once Turambar was naked, and stretched out an arm.

Turambar obeyed with an eagerness that Brandir reminded himself was the love's fever. He shuddered and moaned as Brandir stroked his cock, the salve mixing with his earlier release until he was slick and ready.

This close Brandir could smell the sweet pollen that lingered in Turambar's hair. It had been too long to be very potent, but it stoked Brandir's desire. "I would have us face to face, but my leg won't take it. We shall have to be on our sides." All thought fled him as Turambar took his explanation for further orders and began to manoeuvre him upon the bed.

“Yes,” he said, sighing as Turambar lay down behind him, the other man feeling like a fire embodied. “Like that.”

But once against him, Turambar went still. His cock pressed against Brandir's flank, rubbing against Brandir's skin tantalisingly. Brandir bit back a frustrated sound. Another shudder passed over Turambar, but still he didn't move.

Brandir lifted his head. Even when he turned a little he could only see Turambar's dark hair and not his expression. “Turambar,” he said, and fumbled behind him to touch Turambar's elbow. His arm was tense beneath Brandir's fingers. “Shall I talk you through--”

“No,” said Turambar. He pressed his burning cheek against Brandir's shoulder. His arms went around Brandir, holding him close, though not close enough for Brandir's liking. His voice low, he said, “I cannot promise gentleness. If I hurt you--” He broke off with a desperate groan.

“Did I ask for gentleness?” Brandir asked, and slid his hand between them, thumbing the head of Turambar's cock roughly so that Turambar moaned and arched against him. He remembered Hunthor's doubting look again, but there was no bitterness in him now, only impatient eagerness. He stroked Turambar again, saying, “You won't break me. Please.”

Turambar half-trapped Brandir's hand between them as he moved closer, his mouth hot against the nape of Brandir's neck. “Brandir,” was breathed there, whispered like a secret. Then Turambar grabbed his hip, hard enough to leave bruises.

Brandir covered Turambar's hand with his own and groaned encouragement as Turambar entered him. True to his word, Turambar wasn't gentle, moving in deep, hard thrusts until he was buried fully to the hilt. It was only then that he paused, gasping.

Now Brandir clutched at the bed. “I won't break,” he said again, though in truth he felt overwhelmed. The tremors that moved through Turambar teased Brandir with small sparks of pleasure. Brandir's own arousal was a hot and heavy thing, each slide of his too-sensitive cock against the furs a torment. He wished they were face to face, so that he could see Turambar's expression. “I won't break.” He pressed backwards, trying to take Turambar deeper.

Turambar groaned. He pulled back, his prick sliding free. Before Brandir could protest, Turambar entered him again. Pleasure spiked through Brandir with every movement; he bucked against Turambar. The bed groaned alarmingly beneath them.

Brandir laughed. He knew this was only the love's fever, and yet happiness rose in him, his heart not heeding his head as Turambar pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his nape. “Let us hope the bed holds,” he said, the breathless words gasped out between Turambar's thrusts.

Turambar started to answer. Then his hand tightened on Brandir's hip and he came with a cry. Turambar dropped his cheek to Brandir's shoulder, his hips slowing but not stilling entirely.

Each shallow thrust sent desire through Brandir, his cock rubbing unmercifully against the furs. When he touched himself, he came quickly. As he caught his breath, he heard Turambar groan. Spent as he was, Brandir felt a faint echo of arousal at the sensation of Turambar growing hard while still inside him. Turambar groaned again, frustration in the sound.

Brandir wiped his hand against the furs and then took Turambar's hand, pressing it in reassurance. “Almost over.”

“Do you speak with hope or with experience?” Turambar's voice was still rough, and yet to Brandir's ears it seemed less desperate than before.

“Neither, but I've heard much of the plant's effects from Hunthor.” Remembering the never-ending descriptions in the days following Hunthor's encounter, Brandir added dryly, “Perhaps too much.” Then he closed his eyes and sighed as Turambar began to move against him, slowly at first and then faster as love's fever urged him on. That faint arousal turned to passion, but when Brandir made to touch himself again, Turambar clutched at his hand.

Brandir swallowed down a laugh. “Have pity, Turambar!” he said. “I may not be affected by the pollen, but I'm not made of stone.”

“Have pity?” Turambar said, sounding puzzled, and then Brandir started as the bed suddenly shook beneath them. With wonder Brandir realised that Turambar was laughing. He shivered as Turambar's lips brushed against his ear. “Say rather I am being selfish.”

“Not _selfish_ ,” Brandir protested. “Distracted--” He broke off, gasping, as Turambar's hand slid over his thigh and began to stroke his cock. Caught between Turambar's hand and his prick, Brandir was overwhelmed by the sensation. He buried his face in the furs, ignoring their stale smell, stifling the desperate sounds that escaped him.

When Turambar came, his hand dropped to Brandir's thigh. For a moment he panted, his hot breath ruffling Brandir's hair. Then he sighed against Brandir's shoulder. He fumbled for Brandir's cock, his hand trembling, and the clumsy earnestness of his touch undid Brandir.

They laid together as Brandir breathed slowly. His leg ached in a way that promised greater discomfort later, but he couldn't bring himself to mind as Turambar drew carefully back and then returned, pressing as closely as possible without being inside him.

Turambar draped a heavy arm across Brandir's shoulder, resting his head against Brandir's back. He was silent for another minute, as though braced for further torment from love's fever. Then he breathed out a sigh of such relief that Brandir laughed. “Apparently Hunthor spoke true. Now tell me. Are there any other plants to fear in the woods?”

“A few, though no others with that particular remedy,” Brandir said. “I shall show them to you tomorrow.” He frowned. “I should have thought of it before.” There was no answer, only a deep sigh. “Turambar? Turambar, we should clean ourselves before....” He trailed off, for Turambar's breath was evening out, his arm relaxing over top Brandir.

“Very well, but it shall be on your head if we wake in discomfort,” he said, and was glad Turambar was asleep, for his voice betrayed him. Turambar's hand rested lightly before him. He resisted the urge to clasp it, closing his eyes against the temptation. Even the ache in his thigh couldn't win against his exhaustion, and soon he followed Turambar into sleep.

 

* * *

 

Brandir woke, disoriented. Piece by piece his memories of meeting Turambar in the woods and what had followed returned to him. He lay there for a moment, aware that at some point Turambar had moved, for he was no longer draped over Brandir like a particularly heavy blanket. He ignored the disappointment that soured his stomach. When he finally sat up, his entire body protested. He clutched his thigh where the pain was worst, massaging muscles that felt hard as stone.

Some of the pain receded, and he cautiously began to stretch out the leg. In another moment he would try to rise, and see if he could find his crutch and walk a little around the room.

Then strong hands cupped his thigh. Startled, Brandir stared at Turambar, who was frowning, his brow knit. He didn't seem concerned by the fact he was still naked, seated at the edge of the bed, all his attention upon Brandir's leg. Before Brandir could speak, Turambar began to knead Brandir's thigh.

The massage was at first too hard and then too soft, but finally Turambar discovered the perfect pressure. Brandir stared down at Turambar's hands and all the small scars pale upon his knuckles, a history he would never know, and tried to think of nothing.

“I'm tempted to find and burn all the love's fever in your forest,” said Turambar. He was still frowning. “I am sore in places I never knew could be sore.”

Brandir laughed, though it sounded strange to his own ears, a little too loud and sharp. “Arlas attempted that.”

“And what became of Arlas?”

“He learned that the pollen is even more potent when-- ah!” Brandir gasped as Turambar pressed a particularly painful spot. Agony flared, and then at last the beginnings of relief. He clutched Turambar's shoulder when Turambar made to stop. “No, no, keep going.”

Turambar looked uncertain but obeyed. He bent his head over Brandir's thigh and muttered, “Very well, perhaps I won't burn them. I shall uproot them and throw them into the Teiglin. Let the fish deal with love's fever.”

Brandir should have stopped touching Turambar then. But Turambar's arm flexed beneath his fingers, strong and hale despite the love's fever, and he was more beautiful than ever with his grey eyes focused and his expression absorbed in his task. Looking at him now, Brandir saw him not as the bane of Brethil, but as a good man who had suffered much and not become cruel. He kept his hand where it was.

He said, aiming for teasing, “That seems unkind to the fish.”

“The fish won't have to endure Hunthor's looks when we return to the Ephel,” Turambar said, and then looked up. Something startled flickered in his eyes; too late Brandir smoothed his traitorous expression to blankness. Turambar's hands stilled, and then to Brandir's surprise, he smiled the same tentative smile of before. “Though I suppose Hunthor was right.”

“Right?” Brandir echoed, distracted by the way Turambar's thumb rubbed a slow circle against his inner thigh.

“The cure is pleasant.”

“Oh. Oh!” Brandir said. Surprised happiness filled him. He leaned forward and kissed the ever-present furrow between Turambar's eyes. Turambar raised his head a little, and then they were kissing in earnest. When they broke apart, Brandir had just enough breath to laugh and say, “A pleasant cure indeed!”

Turambar stroked Brandir's thigh, resuming his kneading though now he moved closer on the bed. “I'm still going to uproot all the love's fever that I can.”

“You won't destroy all of it,” Brandir told him. He stroked an affectionate hand down Turambar's arm. “Though I suppose that won't stop you from trying.”

“No,” Turambar said with a shake of his head. “But if I can make these woods a little safer for the people of Haleth, I will do so, with your leave.”

Brandir smiled at Turambar's earnestness. “My leave is gladly given, for I like love's fever as your enemy better than Orcs,” he said and kissed him again before he could frown. “And I'll help you if love's fever burns you once more.”

“Will you?” Turambar's hand moved higher upon Brandir's thigh. “And what if it's not love's fever that burns me?”

“I am learned in healing lore,” Brandir said. He believed that he managed a passably thoughtful look as arousal stirred low in his belly. “I'll find a remedy for what ails you.”

Turambar leaned in. His lips brushed Brandir's jaw, and Brandir smiled and drew him close as Turambar said, “My lord, I'm burning.”


End file.
